Running Battle
by Rhanon Brodie
Summary: Your life comes in bursts of light and heartache when you're dying. It's not your whole life, either. It's the parts that meant the most to you. Andrea / Daryl; takes place during 'Tombs' but flashes back over all three seasons.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I know I've said I'd never write a Daryl fic in the TWD fandom, but if there is one thing I've learned, it's never say never. Ever since watching Season Three, I haven't been able to get the look that passes between Daryl and Andrea at the end of "Welcome to the Tombs" out of my head. This is my take on what went on between those two. This wouldn't have gotten off of the ground without the flailing, prereading, and sub-beta-ing (and Reedus pic spamming) of the delightful incog_ninja. Thanks, MJ._

_Standard Disclaimers apply; I don't own them, and I'm certainly not making any money off of this._

* * *

Your life comes in bursts of light and heartache when you're dying. It's not your whole life, either. It's the parts that meant the most to you. Between the dull, fading numbness of the bite and the forlorn looks of Sasha and Tyreese, I was bombarded with the red checkered curtains of my grandmother's kitchen, the first Christmas morning with Amy, the third case I ever won, the Eiffel Tower, fishing…fishing… and the dead rising. The dead coming. Amy died. Jim died. Jacqui, and Carol's little girl Sophia, and Dale, and Shane… a fleeting moment in a car on a deserted highway, my blood running hot, my pulse hammering madly. Hitting the target. Shooting Daryl. Daryl…Daryl… I blinked against the burn of the wound and found myself staring up into impossibly blue eyes. Daryl's eyes.

Everything that had ever passed between us was suddenly there, taking up room in my mind, pushing out everything else. I'd never known a man to take up my thoughts the way he had – Philip hadn't even come close. Daryl had ghosted his way in and taught me so much about the world I thought I knew, and the woman I'd assumed I was. I'd been stupidly blind, and ignorant, and too stubborn to see the good in him and what was wrong with the world – what had always been wrong with the world. Now, here, at the end of things, Daryl made sense. Daryl made me think about everything I'd done to get to this point. It wasn't the bite of a walker that sealed my fate. It was my own hubris.

* * *

"Don't y'all know when ta leave well enough alone?"

I froze in my march across camp, hell bent on telling the elder Dixon brother to keep his leering eyes off of my baby sister. The voice wasn't loud, but the soft grit of it was meant to be a warning. I scoffed and threw a look over my shoulder, and the only thing I saw was the younger Dixon sitting on the tailgate of his truck, one knee pulled up as he dug the point of a small buck knife under the nail of his thumb. Had he spoken? The man had barely strung together five words since I'd met him three weeks ago. The older of the pair was the talker, and a disgusting son of a bitch at that. I stared and waited for the younger brother to speak again, but he didn't do so much as blink. Rolling my eyes, I turned back to my mission.

"Hey," that rasping tone came again and this time I whirled around, hands on my hips. He was still sitting on the tailgate, and I watched as he spun the buck knife in his hand. He lifted his sandy-blond head and narrowed his eyes in my direction. "Piece of advice," he drawled, nodding his chin in the direction I'd been going. "Don't go down there right now, y'hear?"

I smirked at what I figured was his attempt to keep me out of harm's way. "I'm not going to let some backwoods pervert leer at my sister. Just because the world's gone to shit doesn't mean we have to put up with _that_," and I gestured in the direction the younger brother had. "Besides, I've dealt with worse."

It was his turn to scoff, and he pushed off of the tailgate and raised one shoulder. "Doubt that," he growled. "You mighta _seen_ junkies, but you ain't never tangled with em." He looked away suddenly, and he swallowed tightly. "You ain't never tangled with Merle."

Maybe if I had paid attention to the reedy thinness of his voice I would have been better off. Instead, I cocked my hip and crossed my arms in challenge. "I was a lawyer. Trust me, I've _tangled_ with it all."

Daryl squinted and toed the dirt with one worn boot. "Whatever, Barbie."

"I have a name, you know. It's _Andrea_."

"Good for you," he shot back. "Just don't go sayin' I didn't warn ya."

He did warn me. Halfway, at least. I left the younger Dixon shuffling nervously in the dirt, his eyes darting back to me before I turned and continued on my path to where Merle Dixon was hiding. I ignored the way the younger brother's voice had grated over my nerves and my thoughts, the way the underlying tone set off a warning bell in my head.

Death isn't the only thing that has a scent. There's a thick tang to overuse of flesh and narcotics, like iron and penicillin. I should have heeded the younger Dixon's warning. I should have turned around and gone back to Amy and how she had somehow put those nasty words and lingering stares behind her, and asked her how she did it, how she managed to push it aside, to forget. I never understood her.

I came up behind him. He was high and senseless, caught in his own psychotropic world where he had meaning and purpose. On this plane, he was useless, and I had every intention of telling him that. But as I neared the tree where he'd propped himself, I became aware of the stench of his sweat and the stink of burned chemicals. His shoulder was being put to good use and my gut turned as I realized he'd take time out from the world to jerk off in the woods. Useless. Utterly useless.

I sighed and stopped in my tracks. "Do you think that _maybe_ you could stop the self-indulgence for five minutes? I want to tell you something."

There was a pause in his movement and then a long, loose chuckle sailed on the sour breeze. "Awww, hell, that you, Blondie?" He practically groaned and it made my skin crawl.

I gritted my teeth. "Stay the hell away from my sister."

There was a pause and for a moment I wasn't sure if he'd passed out from whatever chemical he was taking or he was actually contemplating my warning. Then, his shoulder started up again and the sounds of flesh against flesh came faster and harder. "Damn, woman, keep talkin' like that. I'm about to blow my load." He wheezed as he chuckled and my stomach turned in reply.

I narrowed my eyes and drew a breath, ready to let my retort fly, but then there was a sudden flurry clothes moving, and a string of curses was muttered. My eyes widened as Merle Dixon stood and came around the tree, his pants barely hanging on his hips and a high-powered rifle cocked and aimed right at me. "Get on yer knees," he growled.

"In your dreams," I snarled.

Merle sneered and stomped towards me, shouldering me aside as he passed. There was a hollow sound of steel sliding and then the blast of a shot being fired. I screamed and jumped, and spun in the fallen leaves at my feet just in time to see a walker drop. The thick, dark sludge of its blood drained slowly from a bullet hold right through its forehead. I gaped, watching it fall, and I staggered back, trying to put distance between me, and the walker and Merle.

The redneck turned back and looked at me with an indulgent smirk. "Well, shit, Blondie. Now I gotta start all over again." His eyes wandered down from my face to my chest, lingering there. "How's about you show me those tits an' we'll call it even."

I sputtered, caught off guard, not only by his suggestion, but also by the fact that he'd just blown the brains out of a walker that could have just as easily sunk its teeth into me. All I could do was glare for a heartbeat before I drew in a deep breath. "Stay away from my sister and stay the hell away from me, you sick son of a bitch."

He leered and then spat, and turned to face me head on. "You got a real attitude, missy," he chuckled. He began stalking forward. "I like a little spark in a woman." He grunted and winked. "I just saved your ass. Least you could do is show a little gratitude."

If there was one thing I hated, it was a man who thought he was owed something. I bristled at Merle's tone and hated myself for edging backwards as he approached. "You're a bastard," I spat.

For moment, he looked almost taken aback. Then his face split into a wide grin and he cackled, and licked his lips before saying, "Well, hell yeah, I probably am. Me an' my little brother – ain't that right, Darylina?"

I turned to see the younger Dixon dissolve from the trees, like he'd been there the entire time. Maybe he had. I narrowed my eyes as he crossed to where I stood staring down his older brother.

"Shuddup, Merle," the younger Dixon muttered. He glanced to me. "Why don't y'all go back up t'yer sister an' mind yer own business."

"Excuse me? This _is_ my business; this has everything to do with the well-being of the camp and…"

"The 'well-being'?" Merle huffed, pushing between his brother and I. He looked me up and down and spat something from between his teeth. "Doubt you know what that even means. Me an' Daryl here been providin' fer yer _wellbein'_ since you stumbled across us out on the highway. Y'all actin' like yer doin' us a favor when we both know that if it weren't for my baby brother an' I, y'all woulda starved by now. Shit," he finished, spitting again.

"I don't believe this," I muttered, running my fingers through my sweat-tangled hair. I spun in the dirt and looked to Daryl. "Is he always like this?"

He may have been talkative earlier, but now, in the presence of his brother, Daryl clammed up and jammed his thumb between his teeth and shrugged passively. "Merle's Merle," he muttered. He nodded in the direction I'd come from. "I got this," he added, shifting the crossbow he now carried on his back. His eyes never met mine again, but instead settled on Merle. "Go see about yer sister."

It's a funny thing about siblings, really. In the end, all Daryl and I wanted was the best for each of ours.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks for the hits and the faves and the subscriptions to this tale, and thank you to Alnihan for your review. I'm glad your liking how this story is developing and I hope to keep you along for the ride. I realize that a lot of people actually loathe the character of Andrea, and I did too. Ever since I started writing this tale, I've found myself identifying with her, so I hope that I can bring some sense to her motives and her actions._

_Just a quick note: this will stray a little ways into AU territory as we go along. Some plot points from the show may shift slightly, or not even be considered, but I don't feel it will be too big of a deal._

_And extra thanks and a goodly amount of Guinness to incog_ninja, for believing in the look this story is built on, and for flailing and general awesomeness._

* * *

"_Ob-serv-ant. Look it up."_

You want to talk about irony? Have a redneck wave that in your face. I was a lawyer. It was my _job_ to be observant. Nothing would have given me greater satisfaction than to wipe that smug look off of his face, but the feeling vanished before I had a chance to act. That was the thing about Daryl – he said his piece, often surprising you in the process, and then he moved on. He didn't linger. He didn't dwell. He only moved forward, always thinking, always searching, always on the lookout for another way, another meal, another weapon, another chance. He was a survivalist. Every single thing I had learned to hold my own among the high-paid attorneys and the cops who cut corners meant nothing when the world ended. The only thing I could do was fish, and once we left the quarry, that didn't much matter.

I felt numb, and used up by the time we'd reached the CDC. That night we ate dinner around a table for the first time in what felt like years, and we drank, too, like it was Thanksgiving. Only, there was no baby sister for me to pester about grades. Dale sat to my left, where Amy would have been, and kept eyeing me like I might have a meltdown right there in front of a table full of strangers. And they were strangers – at least, that's how I insisted on regarding them. It didn't matter that we'd shed blood together, that we'd lost loved ones in the same fight. I didn't know these people and they sure as hell didn't know me. I pushed the re-hydrated potatoes around on my plate, forcing myself to not roll my eyes at the false sense of security a few bottles of good red wine had instilled on the group.

The Grimes family laughed, finally reunited after months of thinking that Rick, the former King County deputy, was dead. Didn't he see the dark cloud over Shane's face? Didn't Rick know that Shane had been in his bed? It was clear as day to me; to anyone who cared. But it seemed like I was the only one who did; like I was the only one who felt that values and virtue were still things to be upheld in a world in upheaval.

There was a solemn silence from the other end of the table, where Carol, the timid widow of a beastly man, sat with her daughter Sophia, and they ate without their shoulders hunched or casting a wary eye that was on the lookout for a stray fist that may come swinging their way. I don't blame her for not acknowledging Ed's absence; the satisfaction of driving a pick axe through his skull was still bright in her eyes as she watched her daughter eat her fill and sit back with a contented sigh.

Even Daryl, who had raged and then accepted his brother's disappearance, seemed far from concerned as he upended a bottle of Southern Comfort, washing down the last bites of freeze dried chicken. He even smiled once or twice, something I was sure he didn't know how to do, and he cracked jokes at Glenn's expense. I made a disgusted sound then, one that brought Daryl's eyes up to mine. He stared at me, making me feel more stripped down than if I had been sitting at that table naked. Narrowing his gaze, he snorted, and then brought the bottle back up to his lips with a shake of his head. Then, his eyes left me, and I realized that all throughout dinner, all throughout the evening, he'd been the only one brave enough to look me in the eye.

The significance of it was lost on me in the moment. I didn't even care that he'd afforded me one of his steely gazes. All I knew was that every person at that table was in denial.

All save one.

* * *

"_Hell, I can hit a wild turkey 'tween the eyes from this distance."_

The harsh reality of Daryl Dixon's words from two days ago made me curl my fingers into the sides of the bag I carried. After dinner, Dr. Jenner led us down hallways lit with energy saving fluorescents, and pointed out our quarters for the evening. Some would have actually rooms, but for the most part, we were sleeping on couches in offices. At that point, anything was better than the stuffy, hot dampness of Dale's trailer and the fact that Amy wasn't there to hold so that there'd be no shaking.

I was the one that shook the most.

Dr. Jenner and the rest of the group moved down the hall, leaving me to stare at a non descript door, the Doctor's voice floating past me as he led the group further, "…hot water but try not to run it too long. There's not that much…."

A broken sigh, halfway to a sob, left me, and I leaned my forehead up against the cool finish of the door, closing my eyes. The idea of a hot shower was almost too good to be true. Tightening my fingers on my bag's strap, I took a deep breath and felt along the door for the handle.

"Andrea?"

My fingers pressed into the door at the cautious tone in Dale's voice.

"What," I answered flatly.

There was a pause, and I'm sure my snarky reaction had caused it. I told myself I didn't feel bad. Dale was like my own father in a lot of ways, but unlike in so many others that I didn't know if I resented Dale for the former or my own father for the latter. I swallowed back any additional biting remark – he'd been hovering since I'd pulled that trigger, watching me like I might do something rash.

I'd already shot my baby sister through the head. I didn't think I could get anymore rash.

"You hardly said a word at dinner," Dale began.

I turned to face him, leaning back against the door and tilting my head in askance. "I'm sorry if I feel less than sociable. I just had to shoot my sister two days ago."

Dale nodded with wide, gentle eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. But I know how you feel, and shutting down…"

I cut him off before he could continue. "_Do_ you know, Dale? Do you know what it's like to put a bullet through your baby sister's head after she comes back from the dead as one of those…those things?" I narrowed my eyes and pushed from the door, bolstered by my anger. I felt my face contort with my emotions and I forced my tears aside.

Dale gaped and glanced down the hall, fiddling with something in his hands that rattled as he moved. "I…I'm sorry, Andrea," he said softly, extending his hand and what he held.

I looked down to see his offer of a bottle of water and two Advil cupped in his palm. "What the hell is this?"

Dale took a breath and squared his shoulders. "You didn't eat much, either. But you drank enough. Red wine hangovers are the worst…"

"Thanks," I replied flatly. "But I don't need a babysitter." I reached behind me for the door handle as Dale opened his mouth again.

"I'm your friend, Andrea," he clarified.

"I don't need any of those, either," I shot back. The tears were crawling back, closing my throat, pricking my eyes, and I would rather cut off my own finger than let this man see me cry anymore than I had already.

Wordlessly, Dale nodded, and he leaned down, setting the bottle of water down before grabbing my hand and shoving the painkillers into my palm. He then turned and made his way towards his own room.

Another shuffle of movement from behind me made me whirl, and my head spun as my eyes came around and landed on Daryl Dixon. He eyed me up and down, the bottle of Southern Comfort he'd found earlier still dangling from his fingers. Leaning to one side, he watched Dale's hasty retreat, and when the door at the end of the hall clicked shut, Daryl straightened and looked at me.

Alcohol had made his features less…narrowed. His sandy hair stood up on one side, as if restless hands had threaded through in thought, or in anger. My own fingers tugged through the ends of my ponytail and I groaned in frustration. I didn't want to talk to anyone else. I just wanted to shower, and to drink, and to not wake up in the morning. "Don't start," I growled at Daryl.

He cocked his head and rolled one broad shoulder up with indifference. "Wasn't," he grunted. He paused and cleared his throat, and nodded to the bag slung over my shoulders. "Got a bottle opener?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Fer the wine you smuggled out of the dinin' room," he clarified, lifting a long, lean arm and waving a hand in my direction.

I didn't have an opener. I hadn't even thought that far. All I had thought of, when I lifted the bottle, was how good it would feel to sit and drown myself completely. "I'll manage."

Daryl grunted. "With what, yer teeth?" The hand he'd extended slid back to the hip pocket on his jeans and he pulled out a small, folded corkscrew, and held it out to me. "Found it in a drawer," he said with a head tick back towards the kitchen.

He tossed the opener to me and I scrambled to catch it, managing a save before it hit the carpet. I looked at it and then back to him, unsure of what to say.

Daryl began talking again. "Just worried bout ya. Him, I mean," and he motioned to where Dale had disappeared.

"I can take care of myself," I growled.

"Gonna get drunk by yerself, too?" he ventured before lifting his bottle to his lips and taking a healthy swig. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he watched me, waiting for my answer. "Doesn't seem like somethin' a broad like you would do."

I ignored the dig and gave him a hard stare. "Why do you care?"

He snorted and shoved his fingers through his hair. "I don't. Figured if I was drownin' out Merle an' you was drownin' out that sistera yers, least we could do it t'gether."

I made a sound of disbelief and rummaged in my bag, hauling out the bottle of wine. I tore the foil sleeve off of the bottle, working quickly as I spoke. "Let's get one thing straight, Dixon," I began, stabbing the screw into the cork and twisting it ruthlessly. "You and I have exactly one thing in common: we lost our siblings. The _difference_," I paused, giving the screw one last twist before setting the lever on the lip of the bottle, "is that while there's a chance your brother may still be alive," I jerked the opener and the cork popped out with a hollow sound that echoed in the hallway, "my sister is dead twice over. And I'm the one who had to shoot her." I didn't bother pulling the cork off of the screw; I wouldn't be closing the bottle tonight. I tossed the tool back to Daryl and held up my bottle of wine. "So thanks for the offer, but no thanks."

Daryl caught the opener and eyed it before setting his tilted eyes on me. Slowly, he stalked forward, a scowl creasing the features alcohol had smoothed. I'd upended the bottle and taken a few healthy sips of wine, but choked as he closed the distance between us.

I stopped breathing as anger and sorrow and fear flashed through the stormy blue depths of eyes too keen for the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. "You tell me what's worse," he began with a deadly edge to his voice. "You _knowin'_ that yer little sister is dead an' buried, or me _not_ knowin' whether or not my brother is alive an' breathin,' or stumblin' around like one-a them fuckin' geeks." His voice caught at the end and he looked away and took a deep breath, and then another. When he met my eyes again, I felt it right through me like some hot, slicing blade. "You tell me if I'm any less pissed-off than you."

I'd never heard Daryl string that many words together in one breath, and for a moment I could only stare. That was all he did, too, and we stood there, staring each other down in the dim light of the hallway and the alcohol in our veins. "My sister didn't deserve to die," I whispered fiercely. I scowled at him.

"An' my brother did?"

"Your brother was a useless sack of shit," I shot back.

Daryl flinched and his eyes fell stormy, hardening like slate. "That make it mean less? That yer sister was good an' sweet an' Merle was a mean sunnavabitch?" His voice began to rise as his face flushed. "That make it okay fer him t'die? Think that makes it any easier for me?" By now he was snarling, spit flying as he spoke. He looked me up and down and made a dismissive noise. "Arrogant bitch."

"Stupid redneck," I shot back.

Daryl inhaled sharply and took a step back, as if preparing for something. He turned on his heel and began to march down the hall, but then in a flash he turned back, and crossed the distance between us until he was back in my face. I jutted my chin out at his attempt to intimidate and he stopped short at my stance like he didn't quite know how to react. "You're wrong, you know," he finally said. He leveled me with a serious gaze. "We got somethin' else in common."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please. This should be interesting. Tell me; I'm curious, what could I possibly have in common with you?"

"We're _alive_," he growled, nostrils flaring as he answered. "So stop actin' like you're the only one left in the world that's got problems. Shit's not gonna get any better if you shut down."

"You don't know anything about me," I snapped. But oh, god, he did. He could see right through me and it scared the hell out of me.

I held my breath, ready for another attack, but it didn't come. I watched, confused, as Daryl backed down and sniffed once, then twice, and ground the heel of his hand over his eyes. "Goddamn ignorant woman," he muttered under his breath. "I don't fuckin' need this crap." He swung around again, putting his back to me, and stomped down the hallway.

I didn't bother telling him he was right – I didn't need 'this crap' either, but I wasn't about to admit I had yet another thing in common with him.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Many thanks once more to readers and reviewers, followers, faves, and everyone who stopped by to take a look. This is one of my favorite things I've written in a long time and I'm so glad to be sharing it with all of you! Don't be shy, drop me a review or a pm, even if you just want to say hi, and if you're feeling bold, come find me on twitter at reeduffery._

_Standard disclaimers apply. I own nothing here and I'm certainly not making any money off of it._

_This chapter wouldn't be half of what it is if not for incog_ninja and her patience, attention to detail, encouragement, and synopsis of Ssn 2, ep 3. ILY, MJ, but YK. Let's go for a pint some day soon._

* * *

"Folks back home are thinkin' 'Why don't he write?" Daryl sniffed, cocking a glance up at the body that grunted and swung in the overhead branches.

I shuddered as I stared up at the bloated thing and quickly glanced around, wrapping my arms around my middle. "There is no 'back home,'" I droned. I was bone-tired and mindless. The adrenaline that had kicked in earlier in the forest while I sprawled uselessly beneath the snapping jaws of a walker had swiftly left, and I felt deflated in its wake. Only, the sound of the blade sinking deep into the chest of the walker kept coming back to me, along with the hollow thud of one of Daryl's bolts hammering through the skull, kept pushing the blood through my veins. I didn't know why I chose to volunteer to search for that little girl, or why I chose to go with Daryl, or even why he chose to accept the company. All I knew was that an hour later, I was trailing behind the redneck, trekking through damp undergrowth, my eyes falling on the broad line of his shoulders.

Back in the clearing, Daryl wandered close to the swinging body overhead and reached up to snag something in his fingers. There was a sound of paper tearing and Daryl shifted in the slivered moonlight as he glanced up at me with eyes the same color. I shuddered at his look, and he cleared his throat before reading: "Got bit, fever hit, world gone to shit, might as well quit." He snorted and cut his gaze to me at the same time.

I bristled at the unsaid words that came with that look. Yes, I'd been weak. Yes, I'd been desperate. I wasn't going to tell him that, if that's what he was looking for. He folded the note over and handed it to me as he moved beside me and stared up at the reanimated corpse. I read and reread the words that had been hastily scribbled and fingered the hold where the paper had been pinned to the body's jacket.

"Couldn't have been completely alone," Daryl muttered, still eyeing the body. He began to circle underneath it, as if thinking of some way to get it down.

"We all die alone," I replied, folding the note over and tucking it into my bag. I watched as he un-shouldered his bow with one smooth movement. His long legs were coiled and ready to spring into immediate action as he stepped lightly around the tree, his eyes still focused overhead.

He snorted at my answer. "If you believe that, you're dumber than I thought." His eyes slid back over me.

"Amy died alone," I hissed.

"Amy died with you by her side," Daryl growled back.

I tried my hardest not to flinch at his words, and to not show him that he had struck a nerve, but it was impossible to get anything by Daryl and that keen, cool gaze. "What about him?" I snapped, glancing to the body that swung between us.

"Reckon he wasn't out here on his own when he got bit." Daryl swept the immediate area, despite the shadows. "Least he had a reason," he added, pinning me with a pointed gaze.

I narrowed my eyes at his retreat and stomped towards him. "You know, you have a lot of nerve making assumptions about someone you hardly know."

Daryl's head shot up from where he examined the knots in the rope and he pressed his mouth into a thin line. "Think I might start carrying a dictionary around with me. For times like this," he said with a roll of his eyes. There was the slightest hint of humor in his words and when I looked closely, one corner of his mouth was angled up into what I guessed was his version of a smile. "I don't miss much."

I leaned my shoulder into the tree and crossed my arms over my chest. "All right, Daryl," I began with a sourly resigned sigh. "Tell me what you've noticed."

His eyebrows went up with indifference, and he shrugged again before mimicking my stance in the middle of the woods. "Y'all walk around like no one else is goin' through this," he began. "An' yer little stunt at the CDC didn't impress nobody."

I felt like he had slapped me. "I wasn't trying to impress anyone…"

"Weren't tryin' t'be poetic or nothing?" Daryl shook his head and turned on his heel. "Shit, least this poor bastard left a note," he muttered over his shoulder.

I had never felt the need to defend my actions, but something told me that Daryl wasn't the type to accept things for what they were. "Not that it's any of your business," I called out after him, "but I didn't feel the need to do so."

"Cuz nobody cares, right?" He turned and stalked towards me, eating up the distance between us with his long gait.

The more Daryl spoke, the more my cheeks burned. My attempted suicide was turning into an embarrassment with every word he leveled at me, and I felt sick. "Why should they care?"

Here, Daryl paused, and the look he gave me made me want to fall to my knees and sob, or maybe tear that buck knife from his belt and kill the hung walker myself. "Cuz we're all we got," he reasoned softly.

For a while, we just watched one another, his eyes on mine, as if willing me to back down. It wasn't going to happen, and he huffed and turned, pacing back to the tree. The beam of his flashlight fell on what was left of the thing's legs – bloody bone, barely any flesh left.

"Just a big piece of bait swingin' up there," he muttered, making a face. "Look, you can see where the other geeks have gnawed all the flesh off."

The meager spread that had served as my dinner came rushing up from my stomach and I gagged. My mouth tasted vile, and I wiped frantically at my mouth, desperate to not look weak in front of him.

Daryl uttered a sound of mirth. "Yeah, serves ya right, laughin' at my itchy ass."

I spit once more and glanced up at Daryl. He was looking right back at me, head tilted to one side, and perhaps a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "You all right?"

I nodded, pushing my palms to my knees and gulping down fresh air as fast as I could.

Daryl grunted and moved past me, his boots barely touching the ground. "All right, then. C'mon. We got ground to cover."

The reanimated corpse still swung and snarled, and I watched as Daryl cut into the shadows of the forest. "You can't just leave him up there," I pointed out, moving to follow Daryl, but hesitant to leave this thing in this state. Didn't he understand? This was no way to go about…existing. Brainless or not, this was no way to respect a life that had been lost. I hurried to catch up with Daryl, but he swung around as I neared, stopping me in my tracks.

His eyes were hard, cold silver in the moonlight, and they cut to the body in the trees before looking back to me. His gaze narrowed as he moved closer, closing the inches between us. "He opted out. Let him hang."

I shivered at the tone of his words, at the way he seemed to see right into me, and through me. Then he asked me: did I want to live now, or not?

I took a breath and steadied my nerves, and pulled everything I'd ever learned about keeping the face neutral in the courtroom. "An answer for an arrow."

His head tilted the other way as he contemplated my offer, and he glanced up to the body behind me. "All right." He nodded his chin towards me.

"I don't know if I want to. Or if I have to. It's just a habit."

Daryl stared at me like I'd just answered in a foreign language. Then, another rare smile split his face, flashing and then gone, and he snorted. "Shit, must've been a good lawyer. Ain't never heard a more half-assed answer."

"You know a lot of lawyers?" I asked archly.

He shrugged. "One or two," he answered smoothly as he slid the crossbow from his shoulder. He hefted it up and aimed before pulling the trigger and landing a bolt smoothly through the walker's head. "Waste of an arrow," he muttered.

I watched as he bent at the waist and reloaded, moving his shoulders with a grimace. It had to be a difficult task, and one that he'd been doing for some time – the lines of his muscles stood out from the shadows and worked quickly and efficiently. His head suddenly snapped up. I'd been staring, and I quickly looked away, willing myself not to look back.

He huffed again and swung the crossbow back over his chest. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye and watched as he moved into the trees.

As we pushed into another clearing, it became obvious all at once that Daryl's assessment of the hung walker being bait was accurate. Two more walkers stumbled from the trees, groaning and drooling, and staggering their way over the ragged forest floor in their pursuit of blood and flesh. My heart jumped up into my throat and I shifted in the leaves, a scream dying on my lips as Daryl's voice carried over me.

"Calm down," he muttered. His crossbow came up and delivered a swift shot to the head of one walker before he looked to me expectantly. "Other one's got a bum leg. Look, he's draggin' it."

I flailed, wide-eyed, and stared at Daryl incredulously. "What are you talking about?" I wavered.

Daryl sniffed and reached to his hip with one hand, and he moved around behind me, his chest bumping into my shoulders. He unsnapped the sheath of the buck knife and neatly flipped the blade in his hand before offering me the handle. "Want this one?"

"I can't," I stuttered, watching as the walker stumbled forward and twisted its good leg, rendering both limbs useless. It fell to the ground with a thud and then proceeded to claw its way through wet, dead leaves, and all the other things that were rotting beneath our feet. I pushed backwards into the solid frame of Daryl's body, closing my eyes at the heat he threw. I shook my head again, opening my eyes as he growled.

He waved the blade under my gaze. "C'mon, I know y'ain't squeamish. Put down that geek well enough when you was trapped in that bathroom." I detected a smile in his voice. "S'not a Robertson, but I think you'll manage." His free hand moved to my hip and he gave me a small push forward.

I gave him my best scowl over my shoulder and tugged the knife from his fingers, hefting the weight in my hand and taking a step toward the walker.

"Through the brain," I heard Daryl say.

"I know," I nodded, moving cautiously to stand over it.

"Best do it quick, 'fore he gets his teeth in ya."

I let Daryl's words float around my head for a moment. _At least he had a reason_, he'd said earlier. If I let this walker bite me, then maybe I'd have a reason, too.

"T'day, Barbie. We got more important things t'spend time on. That little girl is still out here."

I was pulled from the fantasy of feeling those teeth in my leg, being consumed by fever, and finally, putting a bullet between my own eyes, and putting an end to all of this. I crept around the decaying body, giving it a wide birth. I looked up as Daryl finished speaking and once again, he was watching me closely, his body shifting towards mine, ready to burst into action. Ready to take over if I couldn't follow through.

I nodded stiffly and gripped the handle of the buck knife. I could do this. I already had, only the day before. With one smooth arc, I brought the knife overhead and dropped with the downward swing, putting all of my weight behind it. The blade slid easily through the skull, right under the left eye, and when I heard something crunch loudly, I twisted, and gasped. I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath. For a moment, the body still twitched and heaved, but then, it stopped, and the forest was silent once more.

"Nice one," Daryl grunted.

I wheeled back on my feet, yanking the blade free and then pitching it to one side while gagging. There wasn't much left in my stomach, but I managed to settle it with a hard swallow.

"Gets easier," the redneck supplied as he padded by and bent, scooping up his knife. He wiped the blade on his thigh and tucked it back into its sheath.

I rubbed my fingertips along the grass, wiping any residual blood that might have sprayed. My chest was heaving with each breath I took, and I watched as Daryl kicked what remained of the walker, cussing it venomously. I quickly looked away. "I still don't know how a child could ever survive out here." I murmured to the quiet of the forest.

"You'd be surprised," Daryl murmured. He shuffled to where I was sitting and extended his hand to me.

I took it without analyzing it and let him haul me to my feet. He looked me over and frowned, and then dug into his back pocket, coming back with a surprisingly clean, soft rag. It was bright red, even in the moonlight, a contrast to the drab, dusty clothes we both wore. "Y'got some…" he trailed off and made a motion with his finger under his eye.

I sputtered and snatched the rag, and wiped my face until the skin was almost raw. Daryl waited until he could see my eyes again, and he plucked the rag from my fingers, shoving back into his pocket. "Why are you out here searchin' for this little girl?" he asked, his voice still soft, and his warm breath stirring the hairs straying from my ponytail.

I shivered and turned to stare at the bodies we'd put down. "Because there's no one else to look for her," I whispered.

I felt Daryl shift behind me, and as he moved to stand beside me, I caught his nod from the corner of my eye. "Cuz we're all she's got," he said again.

He then ticked his head back towards the path he'd been following in the darkness, and I trailed after him.

"You were saying something about a child surviving out here," I said after a few minutes of trudging through the woods. Daryl grunted and paused where he was a few steps ahead. When I caught up to him, he began walking once more. "I mean, you did, but you didn't have these things out here."

He shot me a sidelong glance and then looked ahead once more. Daryl turned and looked back at me, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, he rolled his shoulder and scratched at a spot under his eye. "Kids got a sense of self-preservation. They stay alive because they believe that someone will find them." He turned back to the trees and was silent again. Then, he spoke, and it was so low that I thought I might have misheard him. "Reality is, most times, they stay lost forever."


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N: I love all of you._**

**_Standard disclaimers apply. I own nothing save for the plot twists, and I'm certainly not making any money off of this._**

**_Thanks to incog_ninja who dazzles me with her insight and her ability to just KNOW what I'm going on about._**

* * *

"I thought we established at the quarry that I don't do laundry. I don't do dishes, either."

Lori narrowed her hazel eyes at me and jammed her hands to her hips, effecting a motherly glare that wasn't going to work on me – my own mother hadn't had much success, why would Lori Grimes? Because she was Rick's wife? "Well, then what _do_ you want to do, Andrea? Storm around camp and pout?"

"She's good at killin' walkers," Daryl muttered out of the blue.

Both Lori and I turned to watch as the redneck passed by, carrying a jug of water. I afforded him a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes, and he looked from me to Lori. With a bob of his head, he moved on, in the direction he'd set up his tent.

Lori turned back to me with a sneer. "So, what, you want to be on watch?"

"What the hell is your problem, Lori?"

The deputy's wife gaped at my outburst. "My problem," she stated flatly.

"Yes. Ever since the CDC, you've had this perpetual look of utter distaste. Now, I can see you being upset over losing your husband. But you got him back. And I don't blame you for being distraught over Carl, either. We all were. But he's going to be fine. So unless it's a four-week long bout of PMS, get off my case. I don't do domesticity, all right?" I plucked the rifle from where I'd laid it and sauntered off through the camp.

* * *

"Thanks for the vote of confidence back there," I called out as I slowly approached Daryl's tent. I was hoping to start a conversation, and figured that a little praise never did anyone wrong. He was seated outside, going over the mechanics of his crossbow, and he looked up, squinting in the late afternoon sun.

"Need every person we got." His mouth quirked and he quickly looked back down at what he was doing, rough fingertips moving over delicate parts with practiced ease. "Won't do us any good against a herd a walkers if someone is squeamish."

I afforded him another stiff smile, then. He was deflecting. I could work around that. "Think you could teach me how to use that?" I pressed. "You said it yourself the other day: it's the best weapon in a situation like this. Might help if more than one of us knew how to use it."

"You got an Annie Oakley complex or something?"

"I just wanna pull my own weight around here." I wouldn't get drawn into an argument, no matter how petty. Daryl Dixon had a temper and I had a feeling I hadn't seen the half of it in the months I'd spent with him.

"That include hunting for our food?" He nodded to the forest surrounding the Greene's land. "You can barely put down a walking corpse. How the hell you supposed take down a deer, or even a squirrel?"

"Look, five minutes ago you said I could handle myself."

Daryl rolled his shoulder in another lazy shrug. "So maybe I don't think Olive Oyl has any right tellin' people their business."

"And you do?"

Daryl set his crossbow aside with a rough hand and stood quickly, wiping his palms on his workpants. "What the hell do you want from me, Barbie?" He growled hotly.

"I want to learn how to survive," I hissed back, moving into his space. I swallowed and blinked back bitter tears. "I want to learn how to live." I looked out onto the low light spread across Hershel's pastures, and the stark white of a house that had been painted recently. I looked to the wells, the fruit bearing trees, the small garden, the chicken coops. These people had learned to adapt. I could, too. "I want to prove to you that you didn't waste an arrow," I added, flicking my gaze back to Daryl.

He listened with pursed lips, the inside of his cheek tucked between his teeth, and when I finished talking, he afforded me another bob of his head. "All right," he drawled. "But we'll start with the basics."

I couldn't help the broad smile that spread, and while Daryl fought not to return it, I could see from the creases at the corners of his eyes and the way his upper lip twitched that he was losing the battle. He looked away and I pulled out my gun. "I'm ready when you are."

His calm stare slid back over me, and then down to the pistol in my hands. He shook his head and took it, opening the chamber and checking the rounds. With a flick of his wrist, the chamber snapped back into place, and he dumped the gun back into my hands. He brushed past me and started walking towards the farmhouse. Looking up from the gun, I squinted at his retreating back. "Daryl?" I called out.

"C'mon, Barbie. Daylight's wastin'."

I rolled my eyes at his attempt at being gruff, but even over the distance between us, I could hear the hint of a laugh in his words. I strode after him. "Shouldn't we take target practice away from the farmhouse?" I glanced back over my shoulder, fully aware of Dale's gaze from where he stood on the camper, and the way Carol and Lori paused as they pulled the dried laundry from the line. I turned back to Daryl, but he was already stopped and turning around, and I stumbled into him.

He huffed and caught me around the upper arms in his hands, and he held me at arm's length, his fingers curling into my biceps. Tilting his head to one side, he licked his lips and then scoffed. "Target practice is the least of yer worries. Y'wanna learn to survive in this world, ya gotta start at the very beginnin'. An' before guns, or axes, or anythin' else, all we had was fire."

* * *

"_You watchin'?"_

How could I _not_ watch? My eyes seemed to seek out every move Daryl made, no matter how mundane. An hour earlier we were behind Hershel's shed, and Daryl was swinging an axe, splitting wood, huffing with exertion, his hair dark and plastered across his sweating brow. The sun was dropping steadily, and we paused then to eat the beans Carol had heated, and drink water the youngest Greene daughter had carried out of the house.

Daryl had ignored the fork that came with the beans, and set about scooping dinner into his mouth via his fingers, pausing to suck the sauce off his thumb, before chugging water and making his throat bob with every swallow. When he was done, his tongue flickered out, catching stray drops, and he suddenly swung his eyes towards me.

I'd been caught staring. Again. This time, however, I didn't look away. I couldn't. Daryl didn't move, and neither did I. For a brief moment, we sat on the back steps of the house and stared at each other in the dying light. It was a battle of wills – who would back down first? As the moment stretched on, it became perfectly clear to me that I wasn't the only one staring. His gaze was hot, smoking in the setting sun, and it flitted over my face, scorched along my collarbones and the bare shoulder where my shirt slid down, and then further still, along my thighs, until he came to my feet. Then, the heat of his gaze was extinguished as he unfolded his frame and downed the rest of his water. Setting the glass on the railing, he trudged down into the dirt..

"C'mon," he'd grunted, rolling a shoulder and shrugging in the direction of his tent. "Got work t'do t'night."

* * *

"_There are three things y'need to start a fire: fuel, oxygen, and a spark."_

We were crouched down a few feet from Daryl's tent. He'd turned in the soft light of evening, frowning as he determined the direction the wind was coming from, and, satisfied, he'd set to work, making orderly piles of wood. The pieces ranged from kindling to the halves of the bigger logs he'd split, and now his hands moved to place the smallest pieces in the centre of the dirt we'd cleared down into a slight depression.

"Now, there are two ways you can do this – either way works best, but some claim one over the other. You can log cabin," and here he paused, arranging the smaller twigs and sticks from the kindling into a square, overlapping the ends to create a tiny log cabin-like structure. His eyes sailed up to mine, to make sure I was paying attention. When he saw that I was indeed watching, he pulled the cabin down, and began arranging kindling another way. "Or you can teepee. The goal is to have enough air passing through. Y'don't want to snuff it an' waste a match."

He paused here with another pointed glance, almost expectant, and I blinked, fighting the blush that threatened to appear. Daryl's voice had a soothing cadence when it wasn't growling or cursing, and when he spoke, like that first night at the quarry with his Chupacabra story, people listened, despite his best efforts to keep to himself. In the dying of the day, his eyes had changed again, and were now like twilight, and I shivered as he pursed his lips in thought.

"Gotta match, Barbie?"

The nickname he insisted on calling me made my hackles rise, and any romantic notion I'd pinned on him was torn off. I narrowed my eyes sharply as I shifted in the dirt and patted my pockets down. "No. And stop calling me that."

Daryl snorted and reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, fishing out a box of wooden matches. He tossed it to me with a wink. "I'll stop callin' ya Barbie if you light that thing with one match."

I sighed and looked at the little box in my hands. "Daryl, there's no way I can light a fire with one match."

"Best learn quick." His reply was on the heels of my statement. "Sometimes y'don't even have _that_." He nodded his chin towards me. "Let's go. Light's dyin', and so is the heat. Darkness never killed anyone, but you can die of hypothermia in Georgia."

"All _right_," I hissed, affording him another glare.

"Shit, woman, maybe if ya stare at the wood long enough, you won't need a match."

"You know, you're a real asshole sometimes."

"And you're a whiny bitch. Stop fuckin' stallin.'"

My fingers fumbled with his gruff tone, but I managed to free a match. Grasping it between my thumb and forefinger, I made to strike it along the side of the box, but Daryl's hand stopped me. I jerked away, but he caught my wrist, and once more we were staring at each other over the kindling.

His fingers flexed around my flesh and he used his free hand to pluck the match from my fingers. Then, as he looked up at me from under his brows, he turned my hand over, and I let him curl my fingers inward, creating a cup, and he tucked the match in the v between my first two fingers, with the head facing in. The hand on my wrist slid down to where I clutched the box and he held me steady. His eyes never strayed from mine, and suddenly, there was a snap, a spark, and warmth flooded my palm.

Light engulfed his face, and I blinked at his high cheekbones, his tilted eyes, and the way the tiny flame glittered in the bright blue centers of them. My breath caught in my throat as he tilted his head and his gaze fell to my lips. I licked them self consciously, aware of how they were dry and pale they were without the slash of lipstick I'd grown accustomed to. This was the closest I'd been to a man without the trappings of my old life and it scared me.

Daryl's eyes shifted, and he looked back up to me as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. He seemed poised, ready to strike, and I suddenly discovered my heart thumping rapidly behind my ribs, and my pulse fluttering in my veins. The tension between us was palatable and thick. Before Daryl could strike – I could see it in his eyes – a quick flash of searing pain licked over my palm and I yelped, flicking the match from my fingers.

I yanked against Daryl's hold but his grip was firm as he drew my burned hand up to his face to take a closer look. "Might be a blister," he breathed.

My fingers twitched as his words heated my palm more than the match had.

"I'm fine," I stuttered, finally pulling my hand free.

He let me go, though reluctantly, and sat back on his haunches, turning the box of matches over in his fingers. Extending his hand, he held the box out to me. "Guess I can keep calling you Barbie," he snickered.

"Right," I growled, refusing to look at him. I yanked the matches from his grasp and plucked another one out, holding it the way he'd shown me.

The second after I struck the head and the flame came to life, Daryl's voice floated over me as I drew the match down to the kindling. "There's no use for hesitation these days."

We watched as the kindling began to smoke and smolder. Now all we had to do was fan the embers until they burned.

* * *

_Michonne looked up from where we were crouched down in the remains of a concrete structure. Cocking her head to the side, she listened past the howling wind of Georgia in January, past the groaning shuffle of her chained walkers, until she was certain it was safe for the time being. Then, she looked back at me and nodded, giving me the go ahead to light the fire I'd built._

"_You know," Michonne began, sidling back to where I was perched, "when I came across you two months ago, I never would have pegged you to be able to start a fire with one match."_

_I smirked, shaking my head, and stood, patting down the pockets of my heavy coat. "Sometimes," I began, remembering what Daryl had said, "you don't even have that." Tugging the zipper down and opening the coat, I dug into the breast pocket of the plaid flannel shirt I wore underneath and came up with the box. I shook it, and sighed in relief. One left._

"_Where'd you learn this stuff, anyway?" Michonne asked as she nodded to the squirrels I'd laid out, and gutted and skinned. "You some sort of Green Beret?"_

"_No," I answered softly, cupping my hand and striking the match. I touched it to the kindling and held back tears that threatened to fall. "I learned from a guy."_

"_A guy," Michonne echoed flatly._

_I shrugged and glanced up at her, saying nothing._

_The dark-skinned swordswoman made a sound between a growl and a snort, and then grinned. "Shit. I thought you were the type that could hold your own."_

"_I can." Slowly, I slid to my belly and pushed my face close to the kindling, where it smoldered weakly. With my lips pursed, I blew a soft, steady stream of air and held a few more pieces to the embers as they began to glow brightly. When a flame licked up, I smiled, relieved, and sat back up. I continued with feeding the fire. "Aside from lighting fires and skinning squirrels, he taught me that I didn't have to hold my own all the time."_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: The infamous chapter five. Thanks to all new and returning readers, those who faved and followed, reviewed and recommended. Your continued support is so appreciated and it gives me such a boost when you let me know your thoughts and feels associated with this story!_

_As mentioned earlier, some events from the actual series will be tweaked slightly, shift into AU territory, or be completely removed. It's no secret that the writers changed halfway through the second season, and while Daryl and Andrea were gearing up for something hot (in my opinion anyway; the evidence is all there), Reedus' talent and attention to details gave us the flinch when Carol kissed him in Chupacabra, and that in turn caused a shift in the writers' minds that took us down a different path. In a perfect ZA world, these two would have been a force to be reckoned with, and I like to think that Andrea wouldn't have met the demise that she did. _

_In any event, I own nothing except for the plot twists, and I'm certainly not making any money off of this._

_Special thanks to incog_ninja who sends me twirly hearts and flails and every pic of Holdus she can find, and then reads through my stuff to make sure I don't go off on some wild tangent like I've been known to do on occasion. You are my Tyler Durden, so let's find our power animals and just slide._

* * *

He'd said to be ready at dawn and I'd been awake for the entire hour before. Restless with hunger and the events of the night before, I'd unzipped the tent flap and stepped into the chilly pre-dawn that was unbelievably dark. There were no stars; the moon was new and nothing but a ghost in the sky. I guessed it was October, what with the small skiff of frost on the grass and the smell of cold air. I shivered and ducked back inside the tent, rummaging until I found the down vest that had been allotted to me after a supply run. When I stepped back, it seemed that the sky had lightened, and I supposed it had, because I saw Daryl's long silhouette against the now purple sky as he loped from his place at the outskirts of camp to where I preferred to set up within the company.

He barely slowed down when he saw me, merely picked his way around fly lines and pegs, and nodded in greeting. "Bout ready?" he rasped, shifting his crossbow. He didn't wait for an answer and merely swung past the cook fire that still smoked, making a line for the path that ran into the tree line beyond the Greene farmland.

I swore at his abruptness, scurrying to tug my boots on and, at the last second, grab my gun, which I tucked into the waistband of my pants. I had to hustle to catch up to Daryl's long gait, and as I neared he paused, waiting for me to fall into step. We continued on the path, and he parted the barbed wire line that ran the perimeter of the land, stepping on the lowest line while pulling up the top two, making enough space for me to pass through. He followed, and then took off again. I didn't know if he knew where he was going; now, I feel it was instinct guiding him. Daryl knew his way around the area; knew his directions with barely a second glance at the sky, but I swear there was something more that pulled him, that spoke to him, that ran beneath the surface that was his armor. He moved with purpose, with precision, and with patience.

* * *

"I can't feel my ass," I muttered, trying to make as little movement as possible while rearranging my position.

I felt Daryl's eyes slide over me from where he crouched beside me, but he didn't say anything other than a quick, snarky "Shh."

I sucked in a breath and held it, willing myself not to comment on Daryl's short reply. Instead, I allowed myself to roll my eyes before focusing on the green infinity of leaves and undergrowth. The forest was thick here, like it had been that first night in the woods with the walker hanging from the tree, but instead of moonlight, the bright golden wash of daylight flashed through the openings, making shadows and bright bursts of heat.

Fingers pressing to the outside of my thigh brought my attention back to the man beside me, and I looked at him, watching his features draw in concentration. "There, in the trees," he murmured. "Ten yards ahead."

I looked to where he was staring, but saw nothing. I mentioned as much.

He let out a short breath and shifted as much as he dared. I froze when his fingertips slid over my jaw and he pulled my head, and therefore my gaze, ever so slightly to the left. "She's right there."

His words rolled down my spine. 'She' was a doe, and my breath caught as she stepped lightly through the oak and ash. I'd never seen a deer this close; never seen one in the wild. I pursed my lips as I realized that the world had to end in order for me to appreciate it, and I felt sick at the thought of so much time wasted. As if the moment weren't clear or perfect enough, moments later, a small fawn picked its way along the same path the doe had come.

"Yep," Daryl muttered, sliding his crossbow from his shoulders. A gentle smile lit his face as he stared at the deer, but as he hefted his weapon to press the stock to his shoulder, any sense of tranquility was suddenly dropped into the harshness of reality. I reached to halt Daryl's hand moving to the trigger, but he made a sound in his throat that made me halt my movement. "Wait," he grunted.

"But if you shoot the doe…" My heart raced in panic, my eyes going back to the deer.

"Not aiming for her."

His words were not needed. No sooner had I looked back to the doe and fawn did a buck appear, pushing into the clearing, his large head alert, eyes bright and darting left and right. A tremor ran down the animal's back. Beside me, Daryl drew a long, deep breath. There was a snap, and a sharp, soft _zing_, and an arrow slammed deeply into the buck's heart.

* * *

The forest was silent, but the buck's pitiful bleating – there was no other word to describe it – still rang in my ears. As soon as Daryl's arrow had struck it, it had reared and crashed across the clearing and into the trees, the doe and fawn startling and tearing off in the opposite direction. "Let's go, Barbie," Daryl snapped, grabbing the front of my vest and hauling me to my feet.

He more or less dragged me through the brush, though I fought against him, and to find my footing. The woods rushed by as we hauled ass over rocks and fallen logs, through thorny brush. At one point, he swiftly yanked me up next to him, wrapping an arm around my waist and lifting me out of the way of a certain bush. He spared a second to wink, baring his teeth as he pushed me forward. "Poison oak," he barked.

I swore around a nervous chuckle and charged after him. Every so often, he'd pause, cocking his head, checking the ground and then sending his keen eyes around us. Then, he'd move off once more, barely giving me time to catch up. He was like a ghost, the way he passed through the trees, but the few times I managed to keep pace with him, his face was calm, unmarred by a scowl or a frown, and he seemed almost happy.

I didn't know how long we'd run, but soon we came to a slowly winding creek, and here Daryl skidded to a halt, crouching down along the muddy banks. His fingers brushed over the hoof-shaped depressions there. "Yeah, big boy crashed through here not too long ago." His voice was still soft, but at least it was audible next to the gently rushing of water. He nodded to where the long grass along the bank had been flattened. "He ain't far off." Daryl shot me a sidelong glance.

My muscles were vibrating with my pulse, and with the adrenaline of the chase. I could feel the skin of my face flush with the exertion of running, and sweat dripped off my brow as I crouched next to Daryl, waiting for our next move.

"That a smile, Barbie?" he suddenly asked, wiping at his face with his shirt sleeve.

I blinked and became aware of the upward tilt of my mouth. "It's the fresh air," I managed to answer.

Daryl snorted and stood. "Fresh air, my ass. You like the hunt."

I opened my mouth but he cut me off with a raised eyebrow.

"Let's go bag us a deer."

* * *

"Lookit you, all covered in mud and blood. S'good look for you, Barbie."

I wiped my hands down the thighs of my pants, staring at the brown and red stains that were left behind. The deer carcass – or what was left of it – lay between Daryl and me. The excitement of the chase had been fresh in my blood as the two of us threaded into the green not far from the creek, and he watched, wide eyed and panting, as I threw myself on the still struggling buck. I'd pressed a knee into its flank like Daryl had told me to, and in one quick movement had pulled the blade Daryl had pressed into my hand across the buck's throat, opening it up and spilling blood onto the forest floor.

My breath shuddered out of me, and my heart pounded madly in my chest. Surging to my feet, I staggered out of the clearing and further into the woods. My ears were ringing. The light of the mid-morning son was bright, almost painful, and I tasted salt and heat in my mouth. I didn't know what was happening, but I felt wild. Unhinged. The deer's blood was drying on my hands, flaking off as I flexed my fingers, and I stumbled around the trees, feeling like my senses were overloaded. I could hear everything, including the cautious footsteps over the fallen leaves, and I spun steadily into Daryl as he attempted a silent approach.

His hands caught my shoulders and he stared down at me, his own face streaked with dirt and gore. I watched my stained hands grip the front of his shirt and then flatten and slide up to clutch at his hair and the back of his neck. Raising my head, I stared back, and my world tilted as I saw myself reflected in his gaze. He licked his lips, and I mirrored the action. One of us growled. Maybe we both did.

His mouth was a hot, hard press of lips and teeth against mine, and his tongue pushed forward, searching until it touched mine and rolled against it. My back hit a tree, but he grunted and quickly pulled me away from it as one hand yanked the zipper of my vest down and the other slid down the back of my pants. He smirked as he found the gun stashed there, and he tugged it free before setting it aside. His fingers were like iron when he gripped me once more and kissed me, and I tore his head back from mine, glaring up at him with a hard smile. "Killing something gets you off?"

He hummed darkly and slid his hand around to the front of my pants, pushing it down further until his palm skidded over my panties and his fingers tucked between my thighs. "Look who's talking," he rasped, working damp cotton against the heat there.

He squeezed me roughly for emphasis, wrenching a groan from deep inside of me, and I arched into him, letting one hand drag down his chest to his belt. I gripped him like he had me, weighing the solid thickness of his arousal in my palm and purring shamelessly. When he pulled back, his eyes were glittering, pupils blown wide, and his nostrils flared as he fought with the fastening of my jeans and the buckle on his belt.

The sound of my fly tearing open and the click of his buckle made my skin burn, and I rubbed my thighs together as he worked the denim of my jeans down my hips and over my ass. A sharp hiss left me as his fingers barely brushed over the front of my panties, and he hooked the crotch of them with one finger and dragged them away, settling his thumb directly against my clit as his lips pushed against mine once more. I snarled against his mouth, crying out into his throat, and digging my teeth into his lip so hard that I tasted blood. He grunted, pushed me back, and scowled darkly. "You wanna play rough?"

"I'm not the doll you think I am," I returned, scoring his belly with my nails as I hooked my fingers into his jeans and dragged him back. I spun in his arms, setting my palms against the tree he'd backed me into before, and looked over my shoulder at him. "I won't break."

"Cuz yer too fuckin' stubborn," he muttered with a leering grin.

Still, he approached, and I held my breath, watching as he braced one hand on the tree next to mine, and raised the other to his mouth. I was already wet; he hadn't needed to prepare, but the sight of his fingers in his mouth just made me want more of him. As his tongue curled around the tips of his fingers, my breath came in hot, needy, gasps, and the hand at his mouth settled on my front and slid down the front of my panties, rubbing me between his first two fingertips.

The bark bit into my forehead as I leaned against it and let sensation take over. My shoulders hunched as tension quickly built and melted with each pass of his fingers. Soon enough I was bucking into his hand, searching for more, and he swore sharply before raising a booted foot to step on the back of my jeans and push them further down. Somehow, between the two of us, I freed a foot from one boot, and then one leg of my jeans. He snapped the side of my underwear with one strong tug, and I swore at him. With a soft growl he promised to find me another pair on his next supply run. The sound of his own zipper opening was deafening, and I pressed up on my toes and pushed back into the solid heat of his body, hoping that he wouldn't delay things any longer. My veins felt like they would burst and I was close to hyper-ventilating.

The hand he'd settled on the tree moved, and he wound my ponytail around his fist, pulling my head back so that my throat arched and I could just glimpse him from the corner of my eye. Then, I felt his cock, hard, thick and impossibly hot, settle against my ass, the tip leaving a cooling trail of moisture as he rutted against me. His fingers never stopped dancing over my clit, forcing hot, eager sounds from my mouth as I wiggled in his grasp. He bit my shoulder, licked the dents his teeth had made, and then stroked his tongue up along the shell of my ear. He hovered there, panting, and pulled his fingers from my center to grip himself. Releasing my hair, he slid his palm around to my throat, and held me steady with a thumb pressed just below my jaw bone.

The first inches of him made me cry out, made me cross eyed, made me clutch and scratch the bark of the tree. He was burning me up with every press of his hips and the groan that left him as he pulled me by the waist to meet him was feral and aching. The fingers around my throat fluttered, and grazed against my pulse, before sliding down and pushing the hem of my shirt up. The flimsy bra I wore was yanked down, my breasts falling from the cups, and he grabbed each breast in turn, squeezing and palming them roughly, before moving to my aching nipples. Here, he twisted, pulling and pinching until I cried out and rolled my hips back against his. I panted his name, growled it in warning, and he groaned as my body clenched around him.

"Jesus," he panted, cupping my hip roughly, "you're burnin' me up, Barbie."

I growled, knowing that he was not using my name to get a reaction, and I dug my fingers into the tree and slammed my hips back, making us both howl. "Use my name or shut the fuck up," I spat back.

With one hand on my hip, his other arm wound around my torso, caging one breast in the bend of his elbow, and clamping my shoulder with his hand. His thumb dug against my collarbone and drew me back into his body until my arms were straight. "Why don't you make me?"

I gritted my teeth and pounded my hips back into him. Arching forward, I did it again, and then again. Using the tree for leverage, I fucked Daryl as he stood behind me and clutched my body. He panted wildly and bucked when he could, but I set the pace, and he was eager to keep up. His teeth met my ear once more, pinching sharply. A sudden, harsh bounce of his hips caused me to stagger forward, and I braced myself on my forearm. From my hip, his hand curled to where we met, and he stroked over my clit with hard, fast movements that matched his breath fanning against my ear.

I was aching where he plunged into me, and burning in the best possible way. The sound of his grunting wound its way to my guts and made my nerves singe and tingle. I'd had sex, a lot of sex, before the end of the world, but this was beyond what I'd ever experienced. I was open with Daryl. I was raw. I was every heartbeat, every pulse, every flicker of heat and passion that he dug out of me – I didn't know I had any of it until he laid his hands on me. The realization pushed a hoarse moan out from my chest, and he matched it, the sound unbelievably hot and unabashed.

He snarled, and drew up short, his hips packing a quick, staccato rhythm, and hot words sailed over my shoulder. "Goddamn, you're gonna make me come, Andrea."

The sound of my name in his rasping tone made me shudder, and my eyes slipped shut as I braced myself on one hand and slid my other down to where he still prodded insistently. I showed him how to touch me, and he let me go, opting to pull back on my hips as his thrusts became wilder. He touched something inside of me, with my name, and his body, and the more he grunted, the more I tightened and teetered on the edge of climax.

He hissed, feeling me quiver, and he swallowed thickly. "You coming?" he panted. "Huh? Tell me."

I keened and bit my lip, and rubbed myself faster.

One of his hands twisted back into my hair and he tugged me back into his solid chest. "Tell me," he huffed.

I sucked in a deep breath and told him what he already knew.

"Yes," he hissed, railing into me. His word pitched into a moan, pitched high and desperate.

Seconds later we were rattling into each other, and I came harder than I ever thought possible. I'd heard about blacking out, read about it in countless issues of magazines promoting female empowerment, but didn't think anything of it. I remember feeling him swell, feeling my hips dig back into him, searching for every inch of him that I could take, and then splintering apart in the dappled light of the forest.

I came to with Daryl's sweating brow pressed into the nape of my neck. His breath heaved, pulling his frame with it, and I felt it down to my toes. He was still in me, still pulsing hard as I twitched around him, and the places where his fingers clutched me were aching. He anchored himself inside of me, and I felt grounded for the first time in months. I could breath. I could feel the bark beneath my fingers and smell the softness of damp earth and sweat and laundry detergent. Neither of us moved, and there was no sound beyond stabilizing our breath, and the morning breeze stirring in the leaves overhead. We took our moment of peace while we could.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Sorry about the delay in updating! Thanksgiving (Canadian), combined with being sick for almost all of last week, left me unable to post chapters. Also, there was The Walking Dead premiere! How sick was that? I'll be watching episode two tonight. Thank you to each and every one of your reads, reviews, follows, favorites._

_Many more thanks to incog_ninja. If I didn't have her cheering for me, I don't think this would have ever gotten off the ground._

* * *

I'd never shot a man before. I'd never even had occasion to use a gun, much less hold one, before the dead started rising. When that lone figure stumbled out of the woods into the slanted afternoon sun, I scrambled off of the worn lawn chair on the roof of the RV, and my heart began to race. This was what I had been waiting for: a chance to prove to the rest of the camp, and to myself, that I was capable of doing more than wash shirts and open cans of beans.

My voice rose as I called out, drawing the attention of the camp. Even as I lifted the rifle and planted my feet, Rick's voice was harsh with warning. Shane's shirttails flapped in the hot afternoon wind as he and Glenn chased after the former deputy, their own voices rising on the air.

It was one walker, and I had it right in the crosshairs. I squinted against the harsh cut of light and dropped the rifle for a moment. The figure still lumbered, and if I'd been paying attention, maybe I would have noticed something about the gait, limping as it was. The thrill of the hunt that morning was still with me, and had been even as Daryl had held my shoulder with one hand, his other splayed low, and warm on my belly as he slipped free with a soft groan, panting against my neck.

My blood had continued to thunder throughout the day, with every thought of that morning, and on top of the RV it served its purpose. I took another breath before raising the rifle once more.

Dale called out my name as I threw the bolt, and he hammered on the side of the RV. "Just wait, please!"

I drew another breath. "I've got this, Dale," I growled, squaring my stance. My finger moved on the trigger as I exhaled.

"Andrea – NO!"

_Hesitation will get you killed in this world_, Daryl had said only the night before.

I was tired of waiting to die.

* * *

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Dale sighed as he came to sit beside me on the back steps of the Greene house. "We've _all_ wanted to shoot Daryl."

I glanced sidelong at the older man and couldn't help the broken chuckle that left my lips.

"You know, Hershel says Daryl is going to be fine – the bullet grazed him."

I nodded and glanced back to the fields beyond the house and rubbed the drying tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand. "Yeah," I breathed.

Dale was silent for another spell, and together we watched as the evening sun sank below the tree line. When there was barely any light left, Dale stood, and stretched, and began to climb the steps back up to the porch. "You hardly ate anything at dinner," he pointed out. "Maggie saved you a plate."

He left after that, and I leaned back against the steps, ignoring the offer of canned ham and creamed peas. What I really wanted was a martini – Grey Goose, filtered ice, and queen olives, stuffed, stacked, and swimming in the vodka. I allowed myself a sad chuckle and then stood and slowly began making my way back to the camp on the Greene's front lawn. Even with Daryl recovering, I knew that the search for Carol's little girl wouldn't end.

The doll Daryl had come back with had been a bolster, at least to me, and more importantly to Rick. He'd clutched the ragged thing, turning it over in his hands while he searched the tree line that Daryl had staggered out of. I think we all hoped that Sophia would come soon after, tired, and hungry, and crying for her mother. Carol's reaction was the most puzzling. When Rick had approached her with the doll, she'd looked at it, her fingers barely clutching the damp cloth and stuffing, before moving off to the house. I didn't know if the sob that escaped her was for her daughter or for Daryl, but when she piled a plate and moved to the back stairs in the kitchen, I knew that it was more than likely for the latter.

The household quieted with the evening, and the fire at the center of camp was lit. The back door of the house creaked open and soft footsteps caught my attention. Carol stepped onto the porch and moved to the railing, curling her hands over the wood. She stared out into the evening and then wrapped her arms around her middle and sighed.

"How is he?" I ventured.

Carol turned, startled out of her thoughts, and offered a weak smile. "He's fine. He's resting." She bit her lips and looked back out to the trees.

"Look, I know it's not much, but he found her doll. That's got to mean…"

I swallowed my last words as Carol nodded stiffly and turned back to me. "I know," she muttered softly.

I couldn't tell what she was thinking at that moment, and I watched, helpless, as she moved off the porch and down towards the RV. I followed a short while later, tired from the day's events, but ready to face the next day head on. Daryl had found a sign of hope, and I'd be damned if I let it go to waste.

* * *

I woke the next morning to Dale leaning on the fold-away table, his focus trained out the window. A small smile tugged his lips and he chuckled, glancing in my direction.

"Morning," he smiled, before gesturing to the window. "What did I tell you? All he needed was a good night's rest and he'd be back to his surly self."

I rubbed my eyes and pulled myself off of the bench seat where I'd curled up the night before, and joined Dale at the window. I had to smile as I watched Hershel and Rick try to assist Daryl out of the front door and down the porch steps.

"M'fine," he growled, shrugging out of Hershel's hold on his elbow with a scowl.

Despite his best efforts, Daryl still managed to lean heavily on Rick, as a colorful string of curses rang in the cool morning breeze. Together, the two lumbered down the steps and into the camp. Hershel called out then, causing Daryl and Rick to turn, and the former veterinarian reached into his shirt pocket and tossed a plastic vial of pills to the pair. Rick snagged them with a nod, and Daryl muttered some sort of thank you, and then attempted to make his own way across camp to his tent. Rick nodded at Hershel, and then took off after Daryl, trying to talk the stubborn man into slowing down and taking it easy.

I smiled at Rick's concern. I couldn't imagine Rick letting Daryl out again for at least a few days, and I dug my bag from under the table, going through the contents until I found the book I'd borrowed from Dale weeks before. It wasn't much, but I figured Daryl would appreciate something to keep his mind occupied as he rested and healed.

I crossed the camp quickly, determined to head straight to Daryl's tent and offer my apologies. I passed Carol on the way, meeting her glance, and she shook her head gently, knowing the direction I was headed. The older woman's objection to my path merely solidified my decision. "I just want to make sure he's okay, Carol," I muttered as I hurried past.

"He's got twelve stitches," Carol called out, making me halt. "And three bruised ribs," she continued, making her way towards me. "A sprained thumb, and the gash where the bullet hit him." She finished her rundown of Daryl's injuries with a finger brushing her forehead, indicating where I'd hit Daryl, and forced a smile. "He'll need to rest."

I nodded, but the smile I gave Carol was rather wry. "I'm not planning a party, Carol." I fought the urge to roll my eyes at her and turned back the way I was headed, and approached Daryl's tent.

He was lying on his cot, blankets pushed down under his feet, which were bare. I paused and tilted my head, contemplating them. It struck me as such a silly thing, bare feet: I was certain that no one went anywhere without shoes these days, always ready to run. Something told me that he felt at least somewhat at ease, and I took that for an invitation to pull the flap of his tent open.

"Hey," I greeted, trying – hoping – to sound casual.

He looked up from where he'd been stabbing at the screen with a crossbow bolt, and shifted on his bed, propping an arm up under his head. "Hey," he replied, his eyes flickering from my face, down my body in a slow, heated draw, and then back up.

I took a steadying breath. He was trying to rattle me, even if he didn't know it. I immediately got straight to the point. I dug through the contents of my bag and came up with the book I'd borrowed from Dale, and handed it to Daryl.

"It's not great, but we don't have a lot of choice."

Daryl pulled his gaze from mine and looked down to the book, and took it, flipping through the pages. "What, no pictures?" He flashed a smile.

I chuckled and then let my shoulders sag. "I feel like shit." I moved towards him and hovered at his side, moving my lips up in a friendly smile.

He snickered, his face relaxed, calm, and he nodded, his eyes sweeping down and back up once more before focusing on my face. "Yeah, you an' me both."

"If there's anything I can do…"

"Y'were tryin' t'protect the group," Daryl interrupted softly, his eyes locking with mine. He gave a brief nod. "We're good."

The lump in my throat that had lodged there the day before dissolved with the gentle slide of his voice over my nerves. We stared at each other for a few moments, eyes trailing over parts that we had missed the day before. He hadn't bothered to button his shirt – from the way his arms were formed, I should have guessed his chest and torso would be just as solid, and every inch of his skin was tanned, and either covered with ink, or scars, or a dusting of dark hair. My belly twisted gently as I stared at him, down to his belt, his worn work pants and the strong thighs beneath, his long legs, and then once more to his bare feet. I lingered there and suddenly, his toes wiggled, pulling me from my thoughts.

I looked back to him, hoping he didn't see the burn in my cheeks. But he licked his lips, only serving to make me heat up everywhere else. Barely managing a nod, I quickly turned to make my exit, but not before Daryl's voice rolled over me again.

"But hey."

I looked back at him, and held my breath at the way his eyebrows raised and his lips pursed.

"Shoot me again, best pray I'm dead," he warned.

His phantom smile came back, and I returned it, giving him another nod before stepping out of his tent. I didn't want to leave, but Daryl had never struck me as the type to require constant attention. My fingers grazed the nylon of his tent as I stepped away, and I caught sight of Rick and Shane gathered once more at the cars, a map spread out. I hurried towards them, curious as to what the plan for the day was.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: As I've mentioned before, this story will stray into AU territory when necessary. Let's pretend that Andrea didn't jump Shane in the car, okay? Okay. My way is much better. _

_Thank you to incog_ninja who makes my words that much prettier._

* * *

Shane Walsh was a mystery to me. I could never quite get a lock on him or his motives, though I had a feeling most of what he did had something to do with Rick's wife. It was obvious to me, and to everyone else save Rick, that Lori and Shane had been sleeping together. Maybe Rick _did_ know, deep down inside, but was dealing with too much shit to process it. In any event, there had been a time, a lapse in my judgment, when I thought Shane had the right idea – separate from the group, cut loose, and push for Fort Benning before winter set in. He had so much passion, so much fire in his eyes that the more he spoke about it, the more I was convinced. I thought we were cut from the same cloth: tough, no-bullshit, lone-wolf fabric, but the more time I spent with Daryl, the more I came to realize that being alone in this world wasn't necessarily the best option.

Even still, Shane was the only one willing to teach me how to shoot. Or shoot a moving target. It became perfectly clear that afternoon that I had no problem aiming and firing at long distance targets. Even Rick seemed impressed, and to me, that was something to be proud of. Rick didn't dish out unnecessary compliments or speak when he didn't have to, so his praise made me feel warm. It made me feel safe. It made me feel like maybe, in another life, we would have been close friends. If I'd had the choice of a brother, it would have been Rick.

While the others packed up and headed back to the farm house, Shane and I headed up the road to another wooded area, for what Rick had called 'the advanced class.' Shane was no stranger to guns; if Rick was willing to let Carl be taught by him, who was I to complain? I didn't see it right away, the way that Shane was slowly but surely becoming unhinged with every day spent on that farm. He hadn't been right since that first night we'd all arrived, when he'd clipped his thick curls down to the scalp and sweated bullets in the cool evening air. The group gave him room, chalked it up to having seen Otis overcome by a hoard of walkers, and maybe that was true. But something else had happened, that was plain enough. Shane was a changed man, and I felt the coldness in him as he stood to one side and badgered me as I fought to hit the swinging log he'd set up in an attempt to provide me with a moving target.

He growled and grunted, and told me I shot like a girl, and was too emotional. My eyes cut to him quickly and I snarled back just as sharply. I hated macho bullshit, and prepared to give him one of my best speeches when he swore sharply, and pointed out to the log.

"That's the walker that got Amy."

You can feel color draining from your face.

My skin went ice cold and I began to shake. I didn't think he could be vicious, but he proved me wrong. I fought burning tears and the scream welling in my throat, and shoved him aside, tearing back out of the clearing and towards the road. He was a brute, malicious and cruel, and my previous thoughts on Shane and I being one and the same became twisted. It was perfectly clear that we were on opposite ends of the spectrum; the sweet, kind, though clearly womanizing, King County Deputy that had seemed so calm and protective was quickly fading, replaced with something that burned and festered and looked at me with flat, dead, brown eyes.

I dug into the bank of the ditch and scurried to the road, and my boots quickly ate up the asphalt in the direction of Hershel's farm. My gun was tucked into my back pocket, but the road had been clear on the way in. The scorching afternoon heat, we'd discovered, meant that walkers tended to stick to the cool shadows of the forest. My hips ached as I stepped heavily, and my arms swung with my temper. He had no right to say something like that, like he knew me, or knew how I felt about it. I wanted to slap him. To tear at his skin and claw at his face, his smugness, his harshness. I stopped short and pressed the back of my hand to my mouth, muffling an angry sob, and tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I didn't need Shane Walsh reminding me of something that I'd packaged and shelved and pushed aside in order to survive.

The sound of a car approaching didn't startle me, but maybe I was a bit surprised. I figured Shane to be the type of man to not put up with a woman's temper, but when he pulled the car beside me and leaned over to call to me through the open passenger window, he flashed me his best downed puppy look. I imagined how many women he'd successfully bagged and bedded with that look, and if he thought he was going to get _anywhere_ with me with it, he was sorely mistaken. I flipped him the bird, told him to fuck off, and skirted around the front bumper of the car.

He swore back at me, sharp and mean, and tore the car out of park only to swing it around and edge me towards the ditch with it. "Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Shane called out. "I shouldn't have said that about your sister."

I rolled my head back on my shoulders and stared up at the tree tops. To be honest, most of my anger had begun to dissipate as soon as I made it to the road. Sighing, I looked back to Shane and shrugged. "Fine. But I'm okay walking, all right?"

Shane shook his head. "Nuh uh. I don't care how clear the road was, all of that shooting might have mustered a whole herd a walkers. I'll drive next to you the entire way if I have to, but I'm not leaving you out here alone."

Looking up the road, I realized that I didn't have much of a choice. The macho-asshole routine apparently extended to believe that every woman was, in some way or another, a damsel in distress, no matter how well she fired a gun. "Fine," I shrugged, tearing open the door and piling into the passenger seat.

"We're gonna make a little detour," Shane announced as he pulled off in the opposite direction of the Greene farm.

When my eyes sailed to him at his admission, he was watching me from the corner of his eye.

"There's a housing complex just up ahead. The trail Daryl picked up on tells us that Sophia may have headed that way. Told Rick we were gonna check it out and then head back." He finally looked at me head on. "You up for that?"

"Of course." Inside, though, I was doubtful. I didn't like being in a car with Shane. There was an uneasy feeling that lingered in the closed space, and something about the way his eyes swept around so quickly made me feel like he was expecting something to happen.

If I seemed uncomfortable, either Shane didn't notice, or he didn't care. He merely nodded and looked back to the road, and stepped on the gas pedal.

* * *

"Y'all right?"

I shook my head, and ground my teeth together. No. I wasn't all right. I hadn't been all right since firing round after round into the decaying skulls of walkers as they swarmed Shane's and my escape from the housing complex. I stalked past Daryl, intent on a shower.

Daryl cocked an eyebrow from where he leaned against the fence post, and stood straight, snaring my fingers with two of his own and making me pause. "Wanna tell me about it?"

I threw him a sharp look and felt my limbs tremble as his fingers tightened around mine. "The last thing I want to do is talk."

Daryl's wary look turned purely predatory and he yanked me back into his space. "What do you have in mind?"

He let me rage against him, let me claw at his shirt and belt, and he shuddered as I gripped him roughly and scored my teeth along his collarbone. He seemed somewhat perplexed as I backed him into the table in the RV. Dinner was going on inside the house, and I took advantage of the deserted camp to pull Daryl into the camper, turning the flimsy lock behind us. The way his cock pushed against his fly, and how he huffed as I pressed the heel of my palm down the length of him, was all the encouragement I needed. I kissed him brutally, snaring his bottom lip with my teeth, and his hands slid from my shoulders to my hips, pulling me into him. He tried his best to move against me, but I stopped him with a hand in his hair as I pushed at his shoulder.

Slinging an arm around my waist, he fell into the bench seat where I'd slept for the past few weeks and hauled me onto his lap. His fingers splayed wide over my ass and he fought with me, dragging me down against his erection as I struggled to keep him still. My fingers skidded over the bandage at his side and he hissed. I drew back, breathing an apology against his mouth.

"S'fine," he grunted softly, pushing at the hem of my shirt.

Together, we worked our clothing off and flung the garments to one side. He hummed, drawing his fingers down my spine as I clambered back into his lap. As his fingers twined into my hair, I reached between us and took hold of his cock, stroking him until he was impossibly hard.

His hands pushed my breasts together, and he groaned against my nipples before taking one and then the other into his mouth. He was ravenous, matching my fevered movements and gasping with me as I suddenly sank down on him.

He gripped my thighs and stilled me, staring up into my eyes. "That good?"

I smirked, and rolled my hips down into him, making him hiss. "More than," I purred.

He growled and suddenly snapped up a fistful of my hair, pulling my face down to his as he bucked up against me. "Show me."

My fingernails dug into his skin, scoring over the raised ridges of his scars, and he snarled and bit into my lip as he kissed me. Tearing my mouth from his, I twisted my fingers into his hair and keened. I rode him into the seat we were perched on, grasping his jaw and holding him steady so I could look into his wild blue eyes. His nostrils flared and his fingers flexed on my hips, bringing me down against him with a ragged moan. "Jesus Christ," he huffed. I heard him swallow a gasp, and his hips suddenly sprang double time. My teeth sank into my lip against the sudden urge to wail as he hauled me down with an urgency I felt in my own blood. He couldn't get deep enough, even as I pressed up onto my toes, widened my knees, and clutched the back of his neck.

The RV was moving in a steady rocking with our rhythm, and the macramé plant holder swung in its hook over the kitchen table. The shocks creaked, and the dishes began clanking softly as we went faster, sweat beading and rolling over our skin. I watched in the purple, evening light as Daryl's broad, tanned hands slid up from my hips, my skin pale in comparison to his.

"C'mere," he panted, pushing up from the seat and piling me back onto the table.

He didn't miss a beat, and landed a deep, powerful stroke as my ass slid along the Formica surface. We both howled, and I wrapped a leg behind his uninjured side, hooking over his ass, while he held my other leg and pushed back. His eyes were hot as he stared at where we were joined.

I dragged him into me. "Don't fucking stop," I hissed. I bowed my back up from the table, driving myself onto him and curling my toes in the process. My eyes fluttered shut as his hands closed over my hips.

He took over then, and I let him. The only parts of me touching the table were my shoulders and neck. Daryl managed to haul me up and against him as he continued to try and fuck his way through me. The pain was a good kind, and I welcomed it, feeling him hit bottom again, and again, sucking the air from my lungs and blowing me up between my hips. There, in the center of the howling breath, the sweat, and the straining limbs, my fingers clawed at his forearms as I clung to him and the storm that was raging around us. Other things fell away, and all that mattered was the desperate, gasping sound of my name on Daryl's lips as his orgasm came on the heels of my own, and threatened to tear down carefully crafted walls.

* * *

I woke in the dim blue light on the inside of a tent. It was the first time in months that I hadn't woken curled and crooked on the bench seat in Dale's RV, and I flailed, startled, and immediately sat up.

"S'all right," a familiar voice gruffly reminded me.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to focus in the not-quite-light, and I felt movement beside me, a warm, naked body pressing along my bare leg. I became aware of my rapid breathing and struggled to contain it as my fingers unfurled from the blankets and pressed once against the inside of Daryl's wrist.

"Y'snore," he muttered around a yawn.

I snorted at that, and let my eyes roll. "You're not the first man to tell me that."

He grunted then, an affirmative sound. "Almost dawn." He shifted again and then sat up beside me.

His hair was stuck straight up on one side, and he furiously rubbed the heel of his hand into his tired eyes. Then, he stretched, a broad, reaching movement over his head, and he arched his back, making muscles twitch and flex as the light grew. He caught me watching and smirked, shaking his head. "Y'stare a lot, too."

I was already reaching for my boots. "Only when there's something good to look at," I muttered, dismissing his comment.

Daryl scoffed and stretched out on his back, folding his arms behind his head, and watching as I got dressed. "That why you're scurrying off?"

"I don't spend the night with men."

Daryl raised an eyebrow. "Coulda fooled me."

I looked around his tent, fighting the grin that threatened to break my façade. He sounded so fucking casual, so lazy, so damn infuriating – if he had been any other man, if it had been any other place, any other time…but it wasn't. And he wasn't. He wasn't just some guy I'd met at a bar, had a wild one night stand with, or some man I'd spent a meaningless three weeks with before moving on, too bored with bullshit antics, too fed up with wanting something more. Daryl was something different, and I knew, deep in my guts, that I was turning into something different, too.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N A few things going on these days but I have NOT abandoned this story! I'm a little behind on season four, and in the midst of rewatching seasons 2 and 3 so I can continue with this tale. Thanks so much for your reviews - the fact that this story is getting into the hearts of you guys is awesome, and I appreciate each and every one of you, whether it's a follow or a fave._

_incog_ninja makes me happy._

* * *

End of the world or not, powdered eggs tasted like shit, but Hershel's farm was a blessing on us all, as was evident by the fresh scrambled eggs that were crowding my plate next to a slice of fried Spam. Normally, I'd manage to choke down breakfast just to make Dale get off my back, but I had worked up a solid appetite in the prior twelve hours. Beside me, one long leg crossed ankle to knee, Daryl sat shoveling his own pile of eggs and Spam into his mouth, and occasionally, our gazes would meet. He'd stare for a moment, solid and unwavering, without even a hint of a smile, but his eyes burned right into me. I silently prayed to a god I didn't believe in that no one would see my cheeks burning. By the third or forth time it happened, I was getting concerned that someone would notice us.

That was when Glenn stepped into camp, distraught, and shifting from foot to foot. With his hands wringing his ball cap, he looked to Dale, who nodded. From the corner of my eye, I watched Daryl's hand hesitate to take another mouthful. I focused on Glenn.

"Guys," Glenn began in a low voice. His eyes skittered behind us, to the farmhouse, and then to his left, in the direction of Hershel's barn. "The barn is full of walkers."

The eggs may have well been powdered – Glenn's rushed admission made my tongue shrivel and my stomach turn. Beside me, I heard Daryl's fork clatter to his plate, and I looked to see him lean forward, his eyes sharp and aimed at Glenn. His mouth dropped open. It was the first time I'd seen Daryl surprised by _anything_ that had happened in the last three months.

Voices rose around us, the loudest of those being Rick and Shane. I _knew_ Shane had been waiting for a chance to question Rick's authority, and this was just the opportunity he'd been waiting for. Breakfast was forgotten, and Daryl and I, along with the others, rose from our seats to cast glances, and blame, on the Greene family that had begun to gather on the porch.

* * *

All together, we must have shot at least twenty walkers. I wasn't keeping count. There hadn't been time to do much of anything after Shane ripped the lock from the barn door, other than aim and fire. The thunder of gunfire drowned out the mournful cries of the Greene family as they watched their family die for a second time. How could these people not know what was happening? How could they think there was anyway to come back from this? Hadn't Rick explained anything we'd learned from Jenner? Hershel was an educated man; he of all people should have understood.

When the dust settled, the silence was unbelievable. So was the tension in the air. Those with guns were still poised and ready, and we stood staring at the open maw of the barn, watching, waiting for just one more to step through, wondering who would get the first shot off.

And then Sophia stepped out.

* * *

I was certain I couldn't sleep in the RV that night. I couldn't stand to be in the same room as Carol, to be honest. I'd offered what support I could at the time, but she had to be restrained by Daryl, who had kept telling her not to look, to please not watch as Rick lifted a gun that seemed to weigh the world and aim and shoot that…that _thing_ that had once been Carol's little girl right between the eyes.

Daryl had let Carol go then, and I had spun away, as a gut wrenching spike of agony and morbid relief threatened to tear through me. I had never wanted kids. I had been adamant about it. My mother had said I was too selfish to want them, but I hadn't let it bother me: she was right. I _was_ too selfish, too caught up in my world and my wellbeing to spend time raising another human being. Her words came back to me as I thought to myself _thank god I will never have to go through what Carol has_. My stomach lurched and I did the only thing I could think of. I marched right through those unmoving, decayed bodies, into the barn, and began searching for blankets to cover them.

The smell in the barn wasn't anything like the sweet, fresh blood that thickened the air when I killed the deer. I imagined this was what mass gravesites in Eastern Europe were like. The scent of rotting flesh seemed to have permeated everything, from the wooden beams that crossed and creaked overhead, to the rough wool of the blankets folded in my arms. It didn't matter to the bodies that lay strewn on the ground, and it didn't really matter to me, at that point. The scent of death had been clinging to all of us for weeks, for months. It was something that you didn't grow used to, just lived with, and moved on. It lingered just beneath the skin.

I'd held a child only once, a squirming bundle of about nine months that belonged to a college friend who had come to visit one summer after graduation. I'd done the whole 'isn't he precious' bit, and cooed and ahhed where necessary, but beyond that, I hadn't really understood the apparent spell these tiny humans cast on their parents. I do remember that the baby, Evan, was light, feather light, with delicate bones, and soft, unblemished skin, and wide brown eyes and a shock of dark, downy hair. Staring down at Sophia's lifeless form, I stood for a moment, pushing the memory back.

Then, I got to work.

Sophia's bones were just as delicate; her wrist slender, her fingers long, like her mother's, and I wondered if maybe she had taken piano lessons. Then I remembered Ed, and the terror he had reigned over the family, and I guessed my musings were only that. I tucked her hand, no longer able to hold a pencil, or a Frisbee, or a flower, under a blanket, and gently pulled the length of wool up to cover her head. My fingers grazed her hair, once so sunny and blonde like Amy's, now matted with dirt, and filth, blood, and guts. I froze as I focused on her eyes. I remembered that they hadn't been blue, like her mothers, but rather black, like Ed's, but still unbelievably warm, and so friendly. Now, they were glazed over, the color forgotten. Kneeling there in the dirt, a wave of realization came over me, and I once more sent up a silent prayer, _Thank you, whoever you are, for not letting Amy meet this same fate_. I'd been there for her.

She hadn't died alone, and while Daryl had told me as much, it didn't really sink in until that very moment.

Burning bodies burned the memories away. Later that afternoon, we put Sophia, and those members of the Greene family that had been in the barn, to rest in the graves that had been dug during the day. I didn't really pay attention to what was said. My focus was on Daryl. I guess in the midst of everything, I didn't realize what Sophia's demise would do to him. He had put everything on the line for her. He'd almost died, and Sophia had remained lost forever.

* * *

"Jesus Christ, m'I gonna hafta put up a sign that says 'No Trespassin'?"

I halted about five feet from Daryl's tent. I honestly thought he didn't see me coming; his head was bent to the task of skinning some small forest creature, his fingers working economically, and with practiced ease. This was Daryl, though, and I should have known better. He could sense me coming a mile away and hadn't moved a muscle as I approached. I cocked my head and stared at him, and his shoulders twitched as he paused. Those long fingers curled around the handle of his buck knife, but he didn't move his head. Maybe he moved his eyes; I certainly felt his gaze scorch my legs, from foot to thigh.

"Well, technically, this is Hershel's land," I began lamely.

Daryl grunted and flicked his head up to me, squinting in the low afternoon sun. "So what, you coming to serve me papers? Gonna drag my ass t'court?"

For a moment, I merely stared at him, more than a little shocked at his outburst. Daryl had come far in the short time I had known him, and despite all of the changes and conflict he'd overcome, I think I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Shit," he spat, rubbing the back of his hand under his nose. "If you all spent _half_ as much time worrying about yer selves and yer own, then maybe that little girl might still be alive."

"Daryl, we all looked for Sophia," I argued.

He shot to his feet then, growling, and he crashed forward through the scrub grass with enough venom in his eyes to make me clap my mouth shut and take a step back. Something changed in his eyes as I moved, and he stopped short, and almost looked ashamed at his sudden physical outburst. Seconds passed, until he sniffed, and with a roll of his eyes, he spoke again: "Just go, Andrea."

I shook my head. "I'm not going anywhere."

Daryl ground his teeth together in a grimace and pointed a finger in my face. "I was fine 'fore you came along, an' I'll be fine long after we part ways."

Everything coming out of his mouth contradicted the wisdom he'd dazzled me with only a few short weeks earlier. My temper began to simmer as Daryl's natural defenses came swarming back. I could almost see the walls we'd torn down together suddenly, and very rapidly, build back up. I shook my head. "No, I don't believe that."

"I don't care what ya believe," he snarled.

I took a step forward, still shaking my head, and against my better judgment, I snared his elbow in my grasp as he turned from me. His gaze narrowed to where I held him; his skin was practically on fire under my fingers, but I couldn't let go – it was like suddenly I was forged to him. "Yes, you do," I insisted. My tone softened, but I held my ground. "If you didn't," I pressed on, stopping only as Daryl twisted in my grip and caught the wrist of the hand that held him. He held me firmly, his thumb pressed on my pulse.

"What," he urged with a murmur, moving forward with a flicker of his tongue along his teeth.

"If you didn't, you wouldn't have cared if I had lived or died in those woods," I admitted, jerking my head back towards the highway where we'd first lost Sophia.

His fingers flexed on my wrist, but he didn't let go. Instead, he dragged me towards him, leaning down so that he could stare directly into my eyes. My boots slid over the dirt, and when one foot caught on a brick from the ancient chimney that stood near his camp, I stumbled and fell directly against his chest.

He let out a huff and wrestled with me until he had both my wrists and he'd hauled me up against his chest. "Don't think this is anything it ain't, Barbie," he warned thickly.

"What do you want it to be?" I asked gently.

My question made him draw up short, and he quickly looked away, though his grip never waned. When he looked back to me, he gaped, closed his mouth and swallowed, then opened it again in an attempt to answer me. It was a rather stupid question; I had never been one to need labels, to name things for the sake of naming things, but suddenly it occurred to me that whatever it was we were doing, whatever we wanted to call it, he needed it as much as I did. I could tell by the way his voice trembled along the gravelly pitch, and the way his pulse jumped in his neck as rapidly as mine jumping in my wrist.

I tried another approach. "What do you want from me?"

This seemed to make more sense to Daryl, and I watched his eyes flare like the centre of a flame. He moved then, pushing me away to hold me at arms' length, and his gaze lit a slow, smoldering path down my body, zeroing in on the worn denim between my thighs. "Think you know," he said softly. Then, he found my eyes with his. "Same thing ya want from me."

I wanted a lot of things, from this version of life, I realized, and from him. I wanted someone who would watch my back, and in turn, I would watch theirs. The square set of his shoulders and the sure clutch of his hands told me that I wouldn't get that with anyone else. I wanted someone who could ground me, take my anger and channel it. Memories of his frantic gasping, and the eager grasping of my body these last few days made me believe that the man before me was my touchstone. More than anything else, though, I wanted an equal. I saw that in the even gaze he bestowed upon me. I hoped with every fiber of my being, with every ounce of strength I had left, that he was right, that he wanted all of those things from me, because he would get them. With Daryl, I would never hold anything back.

* * *

"_I'm pretty sure I loved him."_

_Michonne snorted as she gazed out of the back door of the warehouse we'd holed up in. "That like being 'kinda pregnant'?" She shook her head, and long dreads of her hair swung, a thick curtain of black against her face. "You either did or you didn't. Ain't nothin' in between."_

_I gaped at her, wide-eyed. It wasn't the first time she'd floored me with the way she seemed to deliver lines with the same succinct, sage-like speeches as Daryl, and another piece of my and Michonne's strange relationship fell into place._

"_What," she said flatly, not moving her gaze from where she scanned, but knowing I was staring at her._

"_Nothing," I brushed off, turning back to where I patched a hole in the elbow of the worn chambray button up I'd nicked from Daryl early one morning. My fingers rubbed the soft fabric and I squinted, trying to make out the shade of blue. Daryl's eyes were a similar color._

"_Wouldn't have brought it up if it wasn't nothing," Michonne pointed out._

"_Okay," I sighed. "I loved him. I do love him. Still." My heart skittered as my thoughts tumbled out of my mouth in the next breath. "I don't know if he's alive or dead but I still love him…" I froze and set my work down, flexing my fingers against the cold that was beginning to set in. Shivering, I sniffed, fed up with the runny nose I'd developed. I inhaled shakily, choking on tears._

"_Think he's still alive?"_

"_If anyone survived the farm, it was Daryl," I resolved. I would have felt it if he hadn't made it. Suddenly, I was overcome with a coughing fit, and Michonne's dark gaze cut to me, concern for me and for our silence apparent in her face._

_She hastily poured water and thrust the small cup into my hands. "You feelin' okay? Heard you coughing last night."_

"_It's nothing," I croaked after taking a sip of water. I was lying; it felt like there were razor blades in the back of my throat, and I hadn't been warm for two days._

_Michonne's frown deepened. "Best stay alive. If this Dixon man survived, I have a feeling he'll kick my ass if you don't make it to see him again."_

_I snorted, but it turned into another coughing fit. I brought the water to my mouth once more, sputtering around my faint laughter. Michonne said nothing more, but shrugged out of the blanket on her shoulders and pulled its edges up around me, before turning back to her watch. _


End file.
